


Faithful Companion

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Collars, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dog Sam, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Incredibly brief mentions of Sam feeling like his autonomy has been taken away, Kissing, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Sam, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9678920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: Set somewhere in the middle of season two. Sam's powers have been developing at alarming rates, with visions growing more frequent and vivid, among other things. A new development throws a wrench in their already batshit life, but Sam finds it's a blessing in disguise, and he may have a thing for wearing a collar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Took a tiny liberty with the lore--cat's eye ritual is all my own. 
> 
> This is what dog Sam looks like, btw. http://www.haziallat.hu/upload/4/article/3800/barna-ujfundlandi_400.jpg
> 
> Enjoy.

Sam’s skin feels way too big.

 

Not in a “who-am-I” existential crisis slash crippling self-doubt sort of way, even though he’s been there, it just feels… like he’s wearing a tracksuit seven sizes too big. Somehow.

 

He’s used to having his skin feel too small--in tenth grade, he was four-eleven, and in twelfth grade, he was six foot. The growing pains were a bitch. Sometimes standing up in the morning felt like jamming his toe bones straight out of his feet.

 

He’s been feeling slightly off for over a week, and downright odd all day.

 

It’s a feeling he can’t place. Something to do with his visions? Curse-related? Bad Chinese food? Mononucleosis? 

 

Whatever it is, it isn’t life-threatening, dangerous, or really, really fucked up, so he does his best to ignore it. He doesn’t tell Dean. Dean’s been on edge ever since Sam pulled an iron fireplace poker out of its little container thingy and through a ghost on the last hunt. With his mind. He hates to think Dean’s afraid of him, but.

 

Something is different. 

 

For now, though, he’s fine, isn’t he? He’s okay. He really is.

 

...Up until he isn’t.

 

***

 

He doesn’t know what happened. One moment, he was fine, just slightly off-balance and wonky, but fine, and the next, the colors were fading from his vision, the red leaching from his shirt and the godawful motel bedspread. His brain went quiet and his spine… moved. It fucking shifted. 

 

He doesn’t know what happened after that, thanks to the convenient passing out he did.

 

He’s up now, though, and something is really god damn wrong. He can’t place it. He groans and it comes out as a high-pitched whine. He takes a breath and holy shit. The place smells awful. It’s like a mix of the spunk of seven hundred different men, trashcans upon trashcans of old latex, vomit, feces, dead rats, and waterlogged carpet from the seventies. Pretty much Eau de Motel times a thousand. 

 

He tries to stand and doesn’t even get even slightly vertical before stumbling. He huffs and tries again, sticking his foot out, then his other foot. Then his other foot and his other foot.

 

Oh god. His feet. His round, fuzzy, brown feet. Paws.

 

He starts panting, feeling overheated all over. He tries to speak and it comes out as a bark. He goes tripping over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror mounted on the closet and almost loses it right there.

 

A fluffy, floppy-eared brown dog stares back at him, whites of its eyes showing, looking absolutely disturbed.

 

He doesn’t know how long he looks at his reflection, his mind grinding to a halt. He looks like a lab or a golden retriever but with longer fur. For his love of dogs, he’s surprised he doesn’t recognized the breed. He bets he’s soft to the touch. 

 

He pads around the motel room aimlessly, tail dragging behind him, wondering how the hell his life came to this. He sniffs a couple of things and immediately recognizes Dean in a lot of them. He picks out another prevalent scent and his hackles raise at the idea of a stranger entering their room over and over again until it hits him. It’s him. Human him.

 

It’s all just way too weird.

 

He spends some time sitting around, concentrating as hard as he can on the mental picture of his human self. He tries to will himself into a bipedal furless being with opposable thumbs but it just isn’t happening. All he gives himself is a headache. 

 

He flops onto the ground, sighing. This is… a predicament.

 

He can’t even open up his flip phone to call Dean and bark senselessly at him until he comes home. Does he want to see Dean, though? This a serious predicament, but he has a niggling feeling that all Dean will do is laugh his ass off.

 

Speak of the devil.

 

He hears a scratch through the door, then the quiet (but much louder than when he had human ears) click of the tumblers moving inside the lock. The door creaks open, and Dean strolls in, holding a white paper bag in each hand, which practically drip grease. 

 

He stops short when he sees Sam. Sam flattens his ears against his head and gives Dean the most pathetic puppy eyes ever.

 

Dean’s arms sag, the food bags dropping to the floor with a squishy thump. Sam whines.

 

Dean takes a moment. Sam knows a pile of his own clothes are lying on the ground behind him, like in a godawful werewolf flick. “Please tell me you’re not my brother,” Dean says.

 

Sam whines again. 

 

Dean rolls his eyes and approaches, kneeling down before Sam. He’s a bit wobbly, propping himself on one foot so he can book it at a moment’s notice. He seems wary. Sam thinks it’s absurd.

 

“Bark twice if you’re Sammy,” Dean orders, startling Sam.

 

Sam barks twice.

 

Dean lets out a fast exhale through his nose. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Bark three times and spin around in a circle if you’re really Sam.”

 

Sam barks three times. He pauses to give Dean what he hopes translates as a bitch face. He spins in a little circle, stumbling once when his paws all cross in a very confusing way.

 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Dean says, and Sam watches all the tension ooze right out of him. It’s kind of fascinating. His dog brain rapidly reports all of this information to him that he hadn’t even realized he was processing. He could almost see the individual tendons pulling in Dean’s arms, smell the changes of his mood, the fear abating.

 

“How the hell did this happen?” Dean asks.

 

Sam shrugs. Fuck if he knows. He felt weird, he blacked out, he was a dog. And now he’s here. And he’s hungry. And he needs to pee.

 

Sam pads past Dean and feels a little more sure on his paws. He noses the fast food bags, sniffing them. The smell is overwhelming and he has to step back a little. The fries don’t smell that great but the burger… good lord. Good fucking lord.

 

Dean picks up the bag. “You hungry, Sparky?”

 

Sam nips at Dean’s ankle and follows him to the kitchenette table. Dean sits down with a heavy sigh and starts unwrapping various bags and cartons of foods. He takes out a burger and removes the bun, swiping sauce and lettuce from the patty and tossing it down on the floor before Sam.

 

The floor which still smells like several gallons of pervy semen, Sam might add.

 

He gives Dean a look. 

 

“What?” Dean asks, through a mouthful of burger. “Dogs eat on the floor.”

 

_ Not on motel floors, you of all people should know how unsanitary that is! _ Sam yells in his head, but it’s no use. Dean is balls deep in a quarter pounder and making all the appropriate sounds.

 

Sam shakes his head and starts nibbling at the patty. His adventures in transmogrification must have done a number on him because his hunger overrides any of his compunctions about slumming it the way he is. He finishes it in another bite or two and flops down at Dean’s feet. 

 

The scents and noises of the city atmosphere prevent him from thinking all the way through the problem. Every time he starts to develop a theory or recalls a case that dealt with human to animal transformation, something distracts him, whether it’s Dean, elsewhere in the motel, or outside.

 

Sam gets up on his hind legs and taps Dean on the thigh with his paw. Dean looks down at him, stuffed maw bulging outward, a stray onion hanging from his shiny lips. He makes a sound that resembles “what is it” as he chews.

 

Sam learned to ignore Dean’s uncouth eating habits very quickly. As a kid, he knew if he was sincerely bothered by the sound of open-mouthed chewing, he would perish in a household with John and Dean. Right now, though, the homicidal tendencies are kicking in.

 

Dean seems to be able to sense that the mood right now isn’t a party mood, thank god, and finishes up rather quickly. He sits on the floor besides Sam and lays a hand on his back and okay, that makes Sam feel a little bit better.

 

“Okay. I’m gonna ask some yes or no questions. Just nod or shake your head, got it?”

 

_ I’m a dog, not an idiot, _ Sam wants to bite out, but he can’t, so he settles for nodding his head with an annoyed huff.

 

Dean starts rubbing at the scruff of Sam’s neck. Sam’s not sure if he’s aware of it. “Do you know why this happened?”

 

Sam shakes his head.

 

“Have you tried to turn back?”

 

Sam nods his head.

 

“And it didn’t work?”

 

_ Obviously.  _ Sam starts to shake his head, then nods.  _ Yeah, it didn’t work. _

 

“Have you pissed off a witch recently?”

 

Sam shakes his head,

 

Dean scratches at his shoulder. “Okay, uh… tap your paw on the floor for how long you’ve been like this.”

 

Sam taps the floor once.

 

“An hour?” Dean guesses.

 

Sam nods his head.

 

They go on like that for awhile, Dean pausing to think of new questions that Sam’s capable of answering. After about thirty minutes of inane, circular logic, Dean decides he’s got the best picture of their situation as he’s going to get. 

 

“Well, I’m gonna go to the library and pick up a few books on dogs,” Dean says. “And I’ll, uh, call Bobby. You’ll be back to yourself before you can say ‘see Spot run.’”

 

Sam steps forward, keen eyes on Dean. He barks once.  _ What am I supposed to do? _

 

Dean’s eyebrows go up. “You don’t like the plan?”

 

Sam growls.  _ I’m gonna go insane if I stay here any longer. C’mon. You’ve gotta understand me,  _ Sam thinks, an edge of desperation making his tail lash back and forth. He steps up to Dean’s side, flank brushing against Dean’s jeans. The message there is clear:  _ I’m coming with. _

 

Dean’s quiet for awhile, and Sam’s too tired to crane his neck and check out his expression. After a couple of beats, Dean sighs and leaves the room, but keeps the door open. His movements are purposeful, so Sam sits back on his haunches and waists, head tilted in curiosity. He glances at the mirror in his periphery and sees himself. He looks so… doggish. It shouldn’t feel degrading but it does. He stands back up, forcing his head to un-tilt. He can wait like a human-dog.

 

He hears the trunk slam and Dean comes back with a loosely wound coil of rope. He crouches down in front of Sam and winds it around his neck, keeping two fingers underneath it to ensure it’s not too tight. He holds the rest of his rope in his hand.

 

“If you’re going anywhere, it’s on a leash,” Dean says.

 

Sam dips his head in acknowledgement. That’s a rule he’s willing to follow.

 

“Cool.” Dean snags his keys from the side table and they head back out. Sam waits patiently by the passenger door, but Dean comes around, shoulders tense. “Oh, no,” Dean says. “Dogs in the back.”

 

It’s bothering Sam that he can’t really roll his eyes. This is an argument he could fight, and win, if he had fucking words. He settles for headbutting Dean’s knee and hopping into the back seat when Dean opens the door. 

 

He’s sorta getting a handle on everything, now. Walking isn’t the event it was when he first woke up and he’s adjusted to the onslaught of noises and smells and the loss of the red cones in his retina. 

 

He makes a circle on the seat, nose twitching constantly, adjusting to the Dean-heavy Impala scent. He settles down and rests with his tail under his chin. The Impala rattles to life, and off they go.

 

Dean makes a stop and Sam settles in for the long haul, hoping to shit that Dean’ll come back with a couple of books and a decent theory.

 

Dean comes back faster than anticipated, with a plastic bag. A plastic bag that smells really, really good. Dean leans over the driver’s seat and beckons to Sam with his hand. “C’mere,” he says.

 

Curiosity overriding any bad feelings, Sam sits up on the seat, craning his neck to try to see into Dean’s bag. Dean reaches back, splayed over the seat, and when he pulls back, Sam feels a slight pressure around his neck, and sees the rope, discarded on the ground.

 

He turns his head and hears a bell tinkling on his chest.  _ Oh, hell no. _ Sam glares at Dean with as much power as he can muster.

 

“Dogs go on leashes, kiddo,” Dean teases, holding up the end of the leash. It’s brown to Sam, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the color translated to pink with a human eye. “I got you a gift as compensation.” Dean’s close to breaking. His lips keep trembling, eyes darting to and fro. 

 

Sam has learned from their childhood that something Dean finds hilarious is most likely not funny at all, whether it’s just plain dumb, vaguely misogynistic, or at Sam’s expense.

 

Dean holds up a little doggy treat, in the shape of a bone. Sam’s mouth waters. He licks his jowls.

 

Dean lets out a startling cackle, slapping the vinyl of the seats. “Oh, man,” he says breathlessly, “Your fuckin’ face, man.”

 

Sam lets out his most menacing growl, showing teeth, but it only makes Dean laugh harder. Sam turns around in a huff but the effect of his outrage is slightly dampened by the constant jingling of the bell around his neck. 

 

The thing is, yeah, it’s funny, if you’re not the one it’s happening to. For Sam, though, it feels like a huge violation of some kind; something big and intensely personal. He’s lost his thumbs, his voice, but also his status in their dynamic duo. Dean doesn’t see it as an emergency, so it’s time to joke. But being the butt of jokes without the ability to fight back makes him feel so... queasy.

 

At the same time, it’s not huge, right? Is he feeling low over nothing? Dean always calls him dramatic. Maybe this time he is taking things with difficulty. Maybe he is sensitive.

 

But it just fucking sucks. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t stop it from happening, and now he can’t control the effects, can’t steer clear of all the bullshit. Backseat, literally and metaphorically.

 

Throughout all his brooding, Dean navigates to the library and disappears inside. He leaves the driver’s side window open a crack. The treat is on the passenger seat and Sam briefly contemplates hopping over the seat to grab it but quashes the idea just as fast. He has at least a small amount of pride he’d like to protect.

 

He’s staring aimlessly at the clouds when his vision crosses and uncrosses, goes blurry just as his brain starts doing somersaults in his skull in one of the biggest dizzy spells he’s ever experienced. He lays his head on the seat and shuts his eyes, groaning. The world is spinning rapidly and his fur starts to itch absolutely everywhere.

 

An indeterminable amount of time passes before he regains consciousness. He sits up, the leash falling across his thighs. His hairy, but not furry, two, long thighs. And yeah, the leash is goddamn pink.

 

Dean slides into the driver’s seat, humming to himself, dumping a pile of books on the seat beside him.

 

“Dean!” Sam exclaims, and Dean jumps, head thunking against the roof of the car.

 

“Jesus christ,” Dean mutters, rubbing at his head, he looks at Sam in the rear-view mirror and immediately averts his eyes, a smug smile spreading across his lips. 

 

“It’s a good look on you, Sam,” he says.

 

Sam looks down at himself. He’s naked. With a leash on. 

 

He looks into the mirror and sees the pink band of fabric around his neck. Hanging from it is a silver bell and a bright red dog tag in the shape of a heart that proclaims “SAMMY.”

 

Sam feels himself flushing the same shade as the leash. “Yeah, well, let’s just get home and try to figure this out while I’ve still got the brain for it.”

 

Dean gives him one last lingering look, eyes a little hooded, before he nods and guns it. 

 

Sam drapes a blanket over his shoulders as he sprints into the room. Once inside, he drops it and shrugs on a pair of boxers before flopping onto the bed. He stares up at the ceiling. “Please tell me you found something at the library,” he says.

 

“Just a bunch of stuff we already know--witches, elixirs, Norse gods, the usual. I have a theory of my own, though.”

 

Sam sits up. “Yeah?”

 

Dean opens his mouth but stops, smiling at Sam, an odd look on his face. “You know you’re still wearing that, right?”

 

Sam’s hand comes up to rub at the tag resting against his clavicle. “Who knows when I’ll turn back,” he says. “It’s just, it’s convenient.”

 

Dean nods, expression masked. “Uh huh. Well, my idea’s kinda simple. Your powers have been going nuclear lately, right? Vivid visions, telekinesis, I’m pretty sure some powers of suggestion, too, and everything is getting stronger. Maybe this is just another ability.”

 

“Becoming a house pet?” Sam says, knowing exactly what his voice sounds like. He can’t help but be skeptical. “You really think a psychic kid combo is seeing the future, picking things up with my mind, and barking at the mailman?”

 

“Hey.” Dean holds his hands up. “Just throwing it out there with all the rest of the crap. Bobby’s looking into it, too.”

 

Sam’s skin twitches. “Oh, no,” he moans.

 

Dean sits up straight. “Hey, what? You okay? It happening again?”

 

Sam only has enough energy to nod before the tunnel vision kicks in, narrowing and narrowing to nil.

 

***

 

He feels a little less like he’s been run over by a truck than the last time. He stands up, and only trips once before he gets the hang of four furry legs again. Dean’s sitting at the table, typing away, phone tucked against his shoulder. He says a few more things that Sam’s exhausted brain doesn’t even bother to process before hanging up and dropping the phone onto the table.

 

“How you feelin’?” Dean asks, turning to face Sam.

 

Sam shrugs. He holds up a paw.

 

Dean’s face breaks into a soft smile. “Five out of ten?” he guesses.

 

Sam nods, pleased. He can’t help the tail wag. It’s instinctual. It feels nice for Dean to understand him, even with the significant language barrier standing between them.

 

“So,” Dean claps his hands together. “Guess who’s got a plan?”

 

Sam lets out a huff.  _ Get on with it. _

 

“I told Bobby about my theory, and we came up with a way to test it. A cat’s eye ritual.”

 

Dean waits. Sam barks. 

 

“See, we can do like a--a computer virus scan, right? The ritual Bobby found can tell without a doubt if there’s an outside influence affecting you. The shells rattle if the person is afflicted with a curse, a spell, a hex, anything to do with hoodoo, gods, asshole spirits of all kids. If they rattle, something did it to you. If they don’t, it’s you.”

 

_ Shit.  _ It’s pretty sound. It’s so sound that Sam doesn’t really want to do it. If the shells rattle, they’re fucked. If they don’t, they’re double fucked.

 

“I’ll get the shells out of the car.”

 

Dean’s gone before Sam has a chance to bark at him.

 

_ Well, _ Sam thinks, hopping onto the floor and laying on his side,  _ I guess we’re doing this. _

 

Dean comes back with a bag of cat’s eye shells, a tablecloth, and spraypaint. Sam watches silently as Dean peers between the computer screen and the tablecloth, spray painting convoluted lines and sigils onto the cloth. Once he’s finished, he clears off the table and spreads the cat’s eye shells into the center of the whorl-like patterns on the table cloth. 

 

Dean beckons Sam over. Sam approaches, head low. Dean murmurs an apology before ripping a clump of fur off of Sam’s neck and littering it around the shells. He puts the laptop on his lap and reads for a moment before slowly chanting in Latin.

 

The pressure of the room seems to build as Dean gets through the ritual. He raises his voice as he reaches the final lines of the verse, then slams the laptop lid shut. 

 

They stare at the table in anticipation.

 

Nothing happens.

 

The feeling of pressure and expectation slowly fades from the room, like fog curling away as day breaks.

 

“I guess that’s that,” Dean declares. “You’re not cursed. You’re just a dog.”

 

They look at each other, and Sam can tell they’re thinking identical thoughts.

 

_ God damn it. _

 

***

 

Since Sam’s other abilities weren’t really… practiced, and instead just got easier to deal with with time, there’s not much they can do about it. Sam becomes skilled at sensing a headache before it comes on. More than once, they’ve been in public and had to book it to the car before Sam either collapsed into a pile of fur or a pile of lanky, naked, collared man. 

 

Sam knows he is one-hundred percent insane when he thinks this, but it’s not that bad, really. In a way, it’s kind of nice. 

 

He’s, uh, he’s not going to look into it too deeply, but he knows he and Dean both enjoy the brief moments where he’s buck-assed naked and wearing a pink collar with a nametag. 

 

They also both enjoy the affection that only comes when he has four legs. Dean lets Sam sleep in his arms at night, curled up into a little dogball. He finally achieved passenger seat privileges.

 

The silence is sometimes a blessing. When it’s just eyes, something is conveyed far more easily between the two of them. Something with more substance and promise passes fluidly between their souls. 

 

It’s just a pure respite, really. Sam thinks that’s the best way to put it. A way to find their way back to themselves and each other after the hectic dance and run of life. 

 

He’s sort of formed an identity of his dog-self. No longer is he being forced away from himself. He’s just transitioning to a different self. Yeah, it would be nice to, y’know, control it himself, and they have been in some sticky situations because of his situation, but he’s dealing, he thinks.

 

It’s gotta be about a quarter past five in the morning right now. The sun is having just as much trouble getting up as Dean always does, but Sam is wide awake. He’d fallen asleep with his muzzle buried under Dean’s chin and Dean’s fingers running lazily through his fur. He’d awoken with two legs and two thumbs and Dean’s hand splayed wide across his back. He’s still wearing the collar. It’s been unclipped from the leash, and he could take it off at any moment, but he won’t. The pressure is comforting, just like the weight of Dean’s arm across his hip.

 

He worries at the heart-shaped tag, holding the cool metal between his thumb and forefinger. This is where he belongs. It’s stupid. It’s unhealthy. He knows. But being an animal held safe in Dean’s arms is the only thing he’s ever truly craved during these past few years. With all the violence, the unsettling pit of darkness in his stomach that seems to grow with each day, he’d long thought he’d gone numb. 

 

Not now. Now he is raw and open and vulnerable and he wouldn’t give it for anything.

 

The world turns from blue to searing gold, and with the lifting of the sun over the horizon lifts Dean’s eyelids. Sam finds himself staring back at Dean, pupils dilated in tacit, immediate understanding. 

 

Dean’s hand resumes running up and down Sam’s side, fur or not, callouses bumping along his moles. 

 

Something changes in Dean’s gaze. “Hey,” he murmurs, from somewhere low in his chest.

 

A lazy smile creeps its away across Sam’s lips, stretching his dimples into life. “Hey,” he says back.

 

Dean leans forward, his hand moving to the small of Sam’s back. He presses a kiss to Sam’s lips, which quickly deepens. Sam opens his mouth and allows Dean to nibble at his bottom lip. They kiss themselves senseless and bodiless, only a single being, not two.

 

Sam pulls back when Dean’s hand strays a little lower. “You sure that’s a good idea?” he asks. “You might end up with a handful of tail.”

 

“Oh, I’m chasing tail,” Dean snarks back, and Sam rolls his eyes.

 

Dean grows slightly more serious, brow dipping. “Do you feel the change coming on, though? ‘Cause that would dampen the mood.”

 

Sam shakes his head, still smiling. “I think we’re good for awhile,” he promises. He reaches up to unclasp the collar, but Dean’s hand stops him.

 

Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t need to say it. “Keep it,” he says.

 

Sam’s hands fall away. Dean rolls him onto his back, and Sam goes along with it, bell quietly tinkling as he moves. Sam reaches up and wraps his arms around Dean’s neck.

 

“Good morning, Dean,” he says, closing his eyes in pure bliss as Dean pets his hair and scratches him behind the ear.

 

“G’morning, Sammy,” Dean whispers back, and those are the last words exchanged for a good long while. Instead of men, they are beasts, but never monsters, the transformation familiar, worn, and practised. 

 

Sam doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but his new ability brought him closer to himself and to Dean. 

 

He feels warm.

 

The sun climbs ever higher.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a rough week and this was a form of therapy for me. It really helped. Nothing soothes the soul more than puppo Sammy, am I right?
> 
> Also--the "bark and spin around" bit is an homage to Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency. Amazing show.
> 
> Sorry it's been awhile since my last fic, I usually try to post once a month (before or on the 30th day of the cycle) but got caught up with my Sammy Bigbang and school. 
> 
> To all you beans reading this, thank you so much for reading this fic and this little endnote, your support means the world. Comments are cuddles, and I cuddle back <3


End file.
